The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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could have told all that. A skilled man, he was. But you’ll come to the meetings now, Persis. Sometimes we hold them here and sometimes at the house, in one of the back rooms.’
‘Do any of the masters know?’
‘No, nor your young lady. It’s no concern of theirs. It’s ours.’
‘But Epaphroditus at Philippi, he was a gentleman, or almost.’
‘It’s not that way in Rome. Of course, one of them might perhaps come. If he’d had a bad time—got in wrong with the Emperor, say. But it doesn’t come natural to them. A gentleman wouldn’t want to share, not really.’
‘Epaphroditus had a farm. But I know it didn’t pay. Mother said he never got any new clothes, and that old mule of his was a sight!’
Phaon giggled. ‘I don’t see the old man putting all his money into the bag, nor yet your Scratch-Cat not getting herself a new dress!’ That last was their name for Flavia; sometimes the scratching was quite literal—on the face. Persis knew already. Phaon added, ‘I can bring you into the meeting, Persis, can’t I? They’ll want someone to stand surety for you, and I never have for anyone yet. May I?’
‘Oh do, Phaon!’ said Persis, ‘who else is in the Church?’
‘Oh, Manasses and Argas and Josias, and one or two from other houses. There’s always enough of us, sometimes the full twelve, sometimes more. I am glad you’re one of us, Persis!’
If only mother knew,’ she said.
‘Perhaps she’ll have a dream,’ said Phaon hopefully. ‘Oh, Persis, I’m simply longing for the next meeting! Come on, we can’t leave the Fish. He’s done what he was meant for. Look, you take one end and I’ll take the other. We’ll make him into a loaf.’
After that she was never really unhappy, even when Flavia hurt her and she couldn’t help crying, or when the old woman scolded her. Nothing was bad for long, and Argas and Manasses used to save her sweets from the dining-room. And once or twice, when she had done Flavia’s hair really beautifully, Flavia gave her an old dress. She was rather frightened of the Briton, who never seemed to notice whether she was there or not, but was always looking at Flavia. She shut her mind tight against what else he might be doing; it was none of her business. Things were different in Rome, at any rate for the ladies and gentlemen.
She had to stay up late, of course, when Flavia kept late hours. She slept on a mattress just outside the door of her mistress’s room, ready to jump up if she was called; in winter she always had to get up once in the night to refill the lamp, in case Flavia might wake in the dark. The mattress was her own territory; there was a hole in it, next to the wall, where she kept things; there was a fish amulet there, which Eunice had given her; she didn’t dare to wear it, but it was lovely to put in her hand and feel, and know that her cheek was resting just above it all night.
She was sitting on her mattress, waiting, half asleep, when Flavia came back to her room after the dinner-party. How beautiful she looks, thought Persis, and wondered if it was nice being her. Nice being rich and having all those lovely clothes and jewels. Nice being a Roman. Or didn’t you notice if you were like that to begin with? She had jumped up, and now she ran into the room to light all the lamps; the one by the bed was a very pretty, silver, three-necked one, and it burned special oil, scented, from Alexandria. Flavia flopped down to be unpinned, stretching and yawning. ‘What a lovely colour madam has tonight!’ said Persis shyly.
Flavia laughed and looked at herself in the silver mirror and said over her shoulder, ‘I’m going to be betrothed next week.’
‘Ooh, madam!’ said Persis, feeling so pleased to have been told.
‘Yes, and I shall have to see about a new dress. Candidus is going to give me an emerald necklace. And bracelets. Don’t pull my hair, you little idiot! I wish I knew what kind of bracelets the Empress was wearing. Well, when I am married I shall be able to go to the Palace and everywhere. I wonder if Tigellinus will give me anything. I like a man to have black hairs on his arms; that’s a sign of strength. Tigellinus has black hairs right on to his shoulders. They say that means a man’s always going to get his own way.’
‘Oh, does it, madam?’ said Persis, and tried not to think about the Briton’s arms, which certainly had fair hair.
‘Does it—does it!’ said Flavia. ‘You silly little thing, why don’t you try? I believe you’d scream if anyone kissed you. You are stupid! When I’m married I’ll see if Candidus hasn’t got a big slave with nice black hairy arms—you know, you’d love it!’
‘Oh, please, I wouldn’t!’ said Persis, terrified.
‘You little fool, of course you would! Everyone does. I ought to have emerald ear-rings, too. Open the shutters a little. How intolerably hot it is. You can fan me now, but don’t stop till I’m really asleep, or I’ll bite you.’
All that summer there was nothing to eat but beans and chick-peas and vetches and sometimes porridge made out of the sourest sort of meal; the children went hunting for wild berries and roots, but came home so hungry that it was worse than if they’d stayed still. It was the same everywhere; little Argas and his friends were always talking about food. Sometimes they went into the rich quarter of the town and stole from the shops, but it was getting more and more difficult. And sometimes there was something to be got by hanging around the Temples. There had been bad weeks before when father couldn’t get work. He was a skilled mason, but nobody was building houses and they were even skimping their tombstones. Sometimes one of the citizens who was still tolerably well off would distribute some grain or have an ox roasted, but what you got was hardly worth standing a couple of hours for. But this year the bad time just went on and on. The last baby had been exposed, of course; everybody had to do that. But the older children were so thin; they weren’t growing; they looked better than they were because they were all sunburnt, but they got tired as easily as old people.
There had been a time when Epidauros was prosperous and full of life. But now Hellas was dying. They were a Province, and if there was any blood in it, Rome sucked the blood. The Achaean League still went on; some people took it seriously, dressed up, talked about freedom and honour and all that. Who cared? The Romans let them; they knew they had only to say the word and the whole thing would crumble. And little Argas and the rest of the boys threw chestnut burrs at the processions. But even the chestnuts did badly that year. It didn’t do to think what winter would be like. But winter came and mother got ill; she just hadn’t had enough to eat for a long time. When fathers are out of work, mothers usually give the food to the others and make do themselves on the smell of the cooking-pots and a joke or two, and it was the same in Epidauros. But father went out with Argas one day, and came back without Argas, but with enough meal and dried fish for a month. And when mother cried he said that at least Argas was going to be fed now.
That was what Argas remembered about the first week of his slavery, crying and eating at the same time. And then being taken away, to Corinth perhaps, and sold again. For quite a long time he was a house slave in Athens; they were an old family, not so well off as they had been, always treating their servants well. At New Year they always used to give Argas a little present of money and stuff for a tunic, and when he wasn’t well, the old mistress looked after him herself. Some day, he thought, he would buy himself out and go back to Epidauros, but it was no good if he was to go back penniless. With enough to eat, he grew up into a tall, handsome boy; his master had him taught to read and write, and also some Latin, as there were often Roman visitors at the house. Sometimes Metronax, his master, used to talk to him, mostly about the old days, when Athens had been the centre of the world, and his own city, Epidauros, had been something to be proud of, too. Those were the days when a single person, a statesman or a soldier, could change